The Next to Die

Avery bought a pack of red licorice vines and a roll of butter rum Lifesavers from the vending machine on the first floor. Starting back up the steps toward the editing rooms, he popped a Lifesaver in his mouth—part of his balanced breakfast. He’d only eaten a few spoonfuls of Special K this morning when the police had buzzed him from the front gate intercom. They had a search warrant. At least he was shaved and dressed for their surprise visit. Avery remained calm. It was almost surreal now, the way his whole world had turned upside down. He put a pot of coffee on, and the four officers combing his house for evidence appreciated the Starbuck’s Kona Blend served to them by a genuine movie star murder suspect.

As far as he could tell, the police hadn’t found anything. They’d filed out the front door after an hour—with only some carpet fiber samples.

Avery washed out the policemen’s coffee cups, then called the hospital. The news from Dr. Wetherall wasn’t good. He advised Avery not to visit Joanne today. She’d tried to attack a nurse yesterday, and was still under sedation. Had he given any more thought to Glenhaven Spa?

Avery said that he’d have a decision for him by tomorrow. In other words, he was hoping for a miracle within the next twenty-four hours.

Munching his Lifesaver, Avery wandered up the corridor, past offices and editing rooms. He found Sean, seated at the video controls and talking on her cell phone.

“I have nothing to tell you,” she was saying. “No, you’re way out of line…and please, don’t call me again.” She clicked off, then tucked the phone in her purse.

Avery tossed the red licorice vines on the desk. “Thought you could use a sugar fix,” he said. “Who was that?”

“Some asshole reporter—if you’ll pardon me. I don’t know how he got my cell phone number.” She picked up the red vines. “Thanks.”

“What did he want?”

Sean tore at the cellophane wrapper. “I’m not even sure he was a real reporter. Hell, he could have been part of this hate group. He wanted to know if you’d been formally charged with Libby Stoddard’s murder yet—the yet part really burned me. He also wanted to know how we intended to plea.”

She got to her feet. “Listen, you were right earlier. I could really use a break. Let’s go for a walk.”

They strolled through a studio back lot, which depicted a small town circa 1958. Long, fin-tailed cars lined the curb, and the Movie Palace played Vertigo. Down the block were Smitty’s Malt Shop, Deedee’s Millinery, and Christoff’s Five-and-Dime.

Sean pulled a very anachronistic cellular phone out of her purse, then checked the last call. The reporter from before had a blocked number. Frowning, she slipped the phone back in her purse. “That stupid call still bothers me. Do you think it was really a reporter?”

“Maybe even a reporter working for them,” Avery said. They strolled past Tony’s Barber Shop. “If this group wants to ruin certain celebrities’ reputations, they’d need media people on their payroll. Yeah, that was probably a legitimate reporter just now. And I can tell you how they describe a conversation like the one you just had: ‘When asked about Avery Cooper’s homicidal tendencies, his attorney, Sean Olson, offered no comment.’” He shrugged and grinned. “That’s typical in this business.”

Sean found herself half smiling back at him. Avery didn’t seem to have let the business corrupt him. He was more worried about his wife than his career. In a town dominated by phonies often trying to pass themselves off as “just plain family folk,” this guy was the real thing. His sweetness and his wholesome good looks were perfectly suited for this small town setting from the fifties. He even looked a bit like Ricky Nelson. Sean almost wanted to hold on to his arm as they continued walking down this magical street together.

Her cellular rang, jarring her from the momentary daydream. She pulled the phone out of her purse again and clicked it on. “Sean Olson speaking.”

“Ms. Olson, it’s Doug Nathan at the clinic. I have the results from the lab tests on those nine sperm samples from Avery Cooper.”

“Yes, Dr. Nathan,” she said, her eyes meeting with Avery’s.

“All nine samples match,” he reported.

Sean turned away from Avery. “Are you sure?” she said into the phone.

“Yes. All nine samples are from the same subject-donor: Avery Cooper. Also, I’m trying to untangle some red tape from administration for those employee records you requested. Could I call you tomorrow on it?”

“Yes, of course,” Sean murmured. “Thanks, Dr. Nathan.”

“Talk to you tomorrow. Bye.” Then he hung up.

Sean clicked off the phone, then slipped it back into her purse. She couldn’t look at Avery. “All the sperm samples match,” she said.

“You’re kidding,” he muttered. “Are they sure?”

“They’re sure.”

Avery said nothing. Shaking his head, he backed away until he bumped against a Studebaker Coupe parked along the curb.

Sean rubbed her forehead. “Avery, is there something you haven’t told me? Did you have sex with Libby? Maybe consensual sex?”

Leaning against the car, he rolled his eyes. “God, no. The only time I even met Libby Stoddard was with our lawyers at that hearing. I didn’t even shake her hand.”

“Okay,” Sean said, nodding patiently. “And you’re pretty sure the police will find a match with the victim if you furnish them with a sperm sample?”

“Yes. I don’t think these people would go to all the trouble of murdering Libby and setting me up for it without somehow matching up that important piece of evidence. They must have paid off someone in the lab.” He shook his head. “I’m stalling for time here, Sean. Don’t you see? If I give the cops a sperm sample, and it’s a match, I’ll be thrown in jail immediately, right? I won’t be able to see my wife or do anything to help with this investigation.”

“I understand,” Sean said, patting his arm. “Well, I can question people at the lab. Maybe somebody’s lying. You’re not a sperm donor, are you?”

He kicked at the pavement. “No.”

“Can I get personal?” Sean asked.

“Hell, we’re talking about my sperm. We’ve already gotten to ‘personal.’”

“You and Joanne spend a good deal of time apart. Is it possible you were with someone who might have kept some of your semen from a diaphragm or a condom?”

Avery shook his head.

“The truth, Avery,” Sean said. “You haven’t strayed once?”

“I’m sorry. I haven’t been with anyone else since I met Joanne.”

“Well, don’t be sorry,” Sean managed to say. “It’s actually very sweet.”

He looked at her again with the same guileless expression that had first won her over. “Sean, you don’t really think I killed Libby Stoddard, do you?”

“No, I believe you’re telling the truth, Avery.” It was beyond all logic, but Sean meant what she said.

Eighteen

Tom Lance emerged from Lowell’s Guns & Ammo Stop, carrying a .38 caliber and a box of bullets in a brown paper bag. This was the gun he would use to kill Dayle Sutton. Authorities would trace its purchase here by a Tom Lance whose appearance was slightly altered.

He wore his disguise for next week’s mission: nonprescription glasses with black frames, and a gray mustache. Hal, standing under the awning of a nearby pawnshop, joked that he almost didn’t recognize him. He suggested that they grab a late breakfast at the McDonald’s across the street.